A tale of patient sorrow, and of faith,
Which taught that patience.
An ancient chamber in a castle old :
The oaken wainscoting is black with age;
The tapestry, worked with Scripture histories,
Has lost its colours; and the books that fill
Those carved arches, show both care and time.
And yet the room is cheerful-for the sun
Looks through the casements, where bright flowers
In graceful order; and the cultured plant
Bears ever witness to a calm delight
Shed o'er the hours of such as nurse its bloom.
Two lean beside the window: one whose brow
Bears evidence of many a chastened grief,
For it is sad but calm-her cheek is pale,
And touching in its beauty-'tis so meek,
So kind, with light that suits an angel's face
Who dreams of heaven. By her side is one
Younger, and exquisitely beautiful,
With large blue eyes, the darker for their tears;
And with the red rose reign upon her face,
Paramount as in youth.
Nay, Bertha, turn from gazing on the road
Which winds amid the lime-trees-'tis in vain ;
The last hoof-tramp has perished on the wind
Two hours agone. Now dry thy tears, dear child;
I would not check the natural tenderness,
The grief, the young and loved at parting feel;
But I must blame this utter yielding woe,
Which feeds upon indulgence, and forgets
Womanly fortitude and gentleness,
Making the strength it finds in patient hope.
But then the dangers of the red campaign—
The weary march—the night-watch when the snow
Drives on a northern wind !-My Bertha, yes,
All these, and more, are in thy Ernest's lot;
Yet not the less his life is in God's hand,
As much as when he wandered through our vales
With thy sweet eyes upon him: trust in heaven-
Prayer and submission bring their blessing down.
Dear child! I know your sorrow, though my heart
Now only beats unto a measured time;
Yet once its pulse was agony; I wept
Tears passionate and vain. Oft have you asked
My early history; I'll tell it now,
That it may bring its lessons-faith and hope;
Show how the heart is schooled by suffering,
And how earth's sorrow may be guide to heaven!
You know that I am not a native here;
These quiet valleys, where security
Seems like a birthright, and the circling year
Is marked but by the seasons and their change—
The green ear ripening into yellow wheat,
The opening blossoms and the falling leaves-
These are our chronicles of passing time!
This was my mother's soil-this Saxon land:
She was the very being such a home
Would form to gentle beauty-calm and meek,
Yet steadfast; filled with all harmonious thoughts,
Her nature and religion were content-
Content which learnt submission from its hope—
Hope, high and holy hope, beyond the grave!
But I was born beside the winding Rhone,
And lived from infancy 'mid glittering scenes
Of falsehoods, follies, and appearances.
No kindly influences from solitude,
No communings with nature filled the heart
With thought, and mystery, and memories,
Which childhood doth unconsciously imbibe,
Till the mind, strengthened by such intercourse,
Finds its own power, and doth rejoice to find.
For never was it meant that we should be
Formed only by the artificial world.
We grow there selfish and indifferent ;
We take up cunning for defence, and deem-
How foolishly!-'tis wisdom: vanity,
Too strongly nourished and too early taught,
Makes every object, like a mirror, yield
Some likeness of ourselves; and we but see
Our own small interests, and our weak desires,
In all around; and we exaggerate
Our merits and our claims; unsatisfied,
As the false estimate must ever be,
It ends in disappointment; and then comes
Envy and hate, anger and bitterness;
While life, a constant fever, has no joy
In nature, or in meditation lone.
Such was my youth: I lived but for myself;
My gentle mother only asked to see
A smile upon the face she loved so well;
And my proud father, in his bold career
Of war and council, had but time to think
Indulgence was affection. Yet not glad,
Albeit so glittering, was my hour of youth;
It had its vain desires, hopes mortified,
Its envyings and repinings. I was young,
And rich, and (I may say so now) was beautiful;
But so were many; and to vanity
The triumph which it shares is incomplete.
Before a year of festival had passed,
There came a stranger to our halls; he bore
High rank and honour in the emperor's court,
From whom he brought a greeting to our king.
It doth not need to paint his lofty step,
His falcon eye; he won him many hearts;
Such triumphs then were surest road to mine.
I loved Count Herman-passionately loved;
And I, methinks, grew better for that love;
For early love brings with it gentleness,
And self-distrust, and timid cares; love feels
Its own unworthiness, and I felt mine-
Conscious of faults I never dreamed before.
Had my affection been less rashly placed
It had been better for my happiness;
But Herman loved in that frivolity
Which most destroys our nature's higher part.
He woke in me no great and noble thoughts,
No generous imaginings; the mind,
Stirred by the feelings to its inward depths,
Was a mysterious sea he sounded not;
His choice was but a worldly preference,
And mutable like other worldly things;
It had no soul, and thence no certainty:
For constancy is but love's spiritual part.
Count Herman left our court with many vows;
How he fulfilled them one short summer taught,
Which saw him wedded in his native land.
Not 'mid the quiet influences around-
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